He couldn’t walk away. He’d committed to taking the place in hand, to being its defender and protector. And in a curious way, he already felt responsible for this unexpected crew, this odd household. In addition, his family and everyone he knew—everyone whose opinion he valued—would expect him to meet whatever challenges arose and succeed.
Even more importantly, he expected that of himself.
His original vision of his life at Bellamy Hall was already fading, dissipating like morning mist under the sun.
So…
Obviously, his immediate way forward necessitated learning all he could about the current state of absolutely everything on the estate.
The others had been chatting among themselves, apparently sensitive to his need to think and assimilate all they’d told him. His gaze roved the table and landed on Caitlin Fergusson, and he added to his mental list the need to learn all he could about the lady who, he was increasingly certain, ran Bellamy Hall.
Caitlin had been watching Gregory Cynster, attempting to gauge his reactions to what he was hearing, but she was too far away to read his eyes, and other than an occasional show of surprise, his features remained uninformative.
Was he impressed? She couldn’t tell.
Her gaze had settled on his lips. She forced it up again and discovered he was looking at her. Intently. As if he wanted to readhermind.
She swung her gaze to Percy.
Much less threatening.
The thought made her inwardly frown. Gregory Cynster was no danger to her…was he?
That an absolute and immediate negative failed to ring in her mind left her even more uncertain.
Cromwell and the footmen proceeded to clear the detritus—all that was left of Nessie’s desserts.
Caitlin was unsure what Gregory Cynster would expect. Slowly, she rose and tapped her wine glass, creating a ringing tone that cut through the conversations. When everyone looked her way, she said, “Although it’s not our usual practice, if Mr. Cynster would prefer to enjoy a glass of spirits, perhaps, ladies, we might retreat to the drawing room—”
“No need.” Cynster smiled at those around the table, his gaze coming to rest on Melrose, Hugo, and Tristan. “I’m happy to continue our discussions in the drawing room.”
Plainly, he’d realized theirs was an organized campaign. As none of the other men normally lingered, everyone was happy to rise and stroll back to the drawing room. Leaving Cynster to the care of Julia and Alice, Caitlin paused in the dining room to ask Cromwell to convey her special thanks to Nessie for a job well done. “The entire meal, first to last, was scrumptious.”
Cromwell beamed and departed for the kitchens, ferrying the last of the empty platters.
Caitlin smiled. Cromwell was always happy when a meal went off without a hitch.
She lengthened her stride and rejoined the others as they filed into the drawing room. She didn’t have to go far to find her charge. Understanding the need to make amends, the three painters had surrounded him just inside the door.
Anxiety flaring, she hurried to join the group. Of all those at the Hall—indeed, on the estate—Melrose, Tristan, and Hugo were the least dependable. Not because they didn’t try hard to perform as required but because they were so very easily distracted.
As she neared, she heard Cynster say, “From all I’ve heard of my uncle Gerrard’s career, that at your respective ages, you are selling at all is a significant achievement.”
Unsurprisingly, Melrose, Tristan, and Hugo preened.
Their eyes lit on her as she halted beside Gregory, and immediately, Melrose drew breath and concluded his presentation. As soon as he stopped speaking, Tristan launched into his description of his works, what successes he’d had in selling them, and cheerily admitted to the rather small contribution he’d made to the Hall’s coffers.
To her relief, Cynster seemed genuinely encouraging. After Hugo had completed his presentation, to her surprise, Cynster asked what compositions they favored. That resulted in an animated discussion during which he held his own.
Relieved, she let the talk run unchecked. It was evident that, through his connection to Sir Gerrard Debbington, who had cut his landscape eyeteeth at Bellamy Hall, Cynster not only understood something of the painterly life but also was not at all inclined to turn up his nose at the notion of an artistic-funded existence.
His continuing questions, most about local opportunities to show their works, demonstrated considerable understanding and also a degree of interest beyond what Caitlin had hoped for in her wildest dreams.
Surely this is a positive sign that he’s able to see and willing to accept that there’s value in what’s being done at the Hall, even with the painters.
In truth, a kernel of optimism was taking root as to what Gregory Cynster inheriting the Hall might mean for all those on the estate.
By the time the tea trolley arrived and Gregory held a cup in his hands, he’d accepted beyond question that Bellamy Hall did not and likely never would bear much resemblance to the average country gentleman’s estate. With that acceptance, he jettisoned all prospects of ever converting it into that. In all honesty, he was no longer sure he wished to; the residents’ passions and enthusiasms had infected him and sunk deep.
